The Disposable

By S.M. Kirkland

Andre Collinger, a teen heroin addict, is marked as disposable by the gang that trafficked him for profit, so he goes on the run, abandoning his infant daughter in hopes that she can remain safe. Leaving Charlotte, he finds himself in Atlanta where he befriends Leo, a hard

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colorful Crow Publishing
• Release date: Jul 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988184539

Book preview

Chapter 1

Andre gripped his leather jacket tight around him, clutching the bundle against his chest as he ran through the woods, his grungy work boots sinking and threatening to stick in the mud. With a grunt, he jerked his foot free and ran a few more steps, stumbled over a fallen branch, but then steadied himself before falling.

His phone rang, and he jerked it out of his pocket. The image displayed Ria, but he knew it wasn’t her.

He answered it anyway.

What? he snapped.

You know what we’re going to do if you don’t bring the product back. The voice on the other end proved colder than the wind and rain slicing down.

No, the voice belonged to a living, breathing nightmare named Scalpel, Dred’s right-hand man. Dred owned him and Ria, too, for that matter. Scalpel made sure Ria and Andre stayed in check.

C’mon, Ben, Scalpel said, using his given name. The thug didn’t know he had adopted a new name, Andre. It was a gift from a client. He’d blown through the money the client had gifted him, injecting most of it but making sure Ria was taken care of.

It’s a trap, Ben! Ria’s voice came through the staticky line.

He already knew. If he returned to the sleazy motel they’d called home for the last two weeks, he and Ria would both die and the product, as they so callously called the bundle in his arms, would end up sold.

Andre disconnected the call and silenced the phone before tossing it away from him. They had Ria’s phone, making his no longer secure. Tossing it wouldn’t keep them off his tail for long, but it was the best he could do. Hugging the jacket against his chest, he continued to run. He stopped before exiting the woods, eyeing the dark highway, looking for tails. Ahead of him, a small fire station was lit up, but the big garage doors were closed, protecting all inside from the rain. Around back were several small training buildings that firefighters used to practice. The ground level featured a small door that led into a completely dark space.

Then he saw it, the black metal insert on the wall of the fire station. Scalpel wasn’t stupid, he probably had eyes on him or at least on this area. He also saw the cargo boxes and buildings used for training firefighters.

Andre bit his lip. The insert on the station would be the safest, but leave him exposed. Still. . .actions had consequences, and he needed to ensure this consequence remained safe, even if it jammed him up. He didn’t matter anyway. Scanning the area again, he ran up to the insert and froze again.

He shifted the bundle to one arm and opened the box labeled Baby Drop Off. As the soft cry cut through the night, he closed the door and bolted.

Chapter 2

Please, Lord, don’t let me sound stupid. I just want whatever they choose to really help people who really need it.

Rax tapped a couple of buttons on his tablet and eyed the screen hovering in front of the members of the Gay-Straight Alliance where he served as treasurer. He’d already given them the current financial status, now it was time for the group to choose what charity would benefit from their year-long giving and special fundraisers.

So, he began addressing the group. I researched all the suggestions sent my way. I looked at what their mission was versus how they were doing meeting that mission, how much money went to administrative cost versus the actual charity, and what their needs were and narrowed the twenty down to three.

The PowerPoint shifted from the bullet points of how he narrowed the list down to Option One. The picture showed a basic non-descript brick building with smaller pictures of the inside, including photos featuring a woman helping children, the long line of people waiting for food, and a large room labeled as the clothes closet, with racks of clothes hung neatly.

The Warehouse is a facility downtown; you may have passed them without knowing it. They serve the homeless and socio-economic frail. They provide three meals a day — usually hot meals, but during the summer they will serve more sandwiches and salads; they offer support groups for addiction and trauma — including physical, sexual, and emotional abuse; they offer GED classes, child, and after-school care, and host several other volunteer groups who offer art classes, martial arts, and music. They also have a doctor and a therapist, each who come in twice a month.

Reading the room, the group seemed impressed. This was his first choice. They really had it together.

Economically, their administrative cost is minimal. . .their CEO Marcus Hamilton does not take a salary and they own the building outright. They do pay the child-care workers and cover background checks for volunteers who work directly with children, but you can see the averages and percentages on the PowerPoint are pretty impressive. They have several businesses and churches who provide most of their financial support, but the need grows every day, especially in this economy.

He finished and moved to number two, a rescue that focused on pit bulls and other dogs used for nefarious purposes. They, too, had low administrative costs. They didn’t advertise as no-kill because Rax knew not all dogs could be rehabilitated. The third option was to raise social awareness of the need for cleaner city water.

He ended the PowerPoint presentation and let the group discuss the three. Finally, someone looked at him.

Isn’t the Warehouse a Christian organization? The disdain dropped from his mouth like droplets of fire.

Yes, it is, Rax answered matter-of-factly. Non- denominational.

Why would you present such a prejudiced organization? Christians hate gays.

First, Rax said drily, I researched every organization given to me, without bias. I based my figures on measurable data, not misconceptions. They, by far, have served more people and provided more opportunities than any of the organizations. As far as Christians hating gays, some do, some don’t. Just as we, he gestured to his gay colleagues, don’t want to be lumped in with groomers, you probably shouldn’t lump all Christians as haters.

He shifted, unsure if he should continue. They could accuse him of bias, but still, he felt the need to protect his family back home.

My pastor took me in when my homophobe dad beat me up and tossed me out. He almost lost his job because of it, and he was willing to do that to protect me, to keep me off the street. Yeah, there are some haters out there, but not all of them, and I truly believe the Warehouse is out to help these other kids who are treated as . . . he shrugged, frustrated, disposable.

I don’t know, someone else said. I think the rescue agency is probably the least controversial. Who doesn’t want to save dogs?

Because they kill dogs, someone else said.

Why didn’t you select a better organization to serve people?

Rax wanted to respond with, Why don’t you ask Dr. Alvarez, who sent him the information on the warehouse?. .. but refrained. Staying neutral and being respectful of all the organizations hadn’t really worked, and he felt aggravation building inside of him.

Because the next direct service organization had outrageous administrative costs, Rax said. The Warehouse is doing the work they say they are doing.

A cough caught everyone’s attention, and they turned to see Dr. Alvarez, and a wave of relief washed over Rax. Dr. Alvarez was not only the faculty sponsor for the alliance, but Rax’s academic advisor. Rax respected the professor immensely.

He smiled warmly at all of them. Mr. Faulkner, may I? Rax smiled. Sure, Dr. Alvarez.

I assure you that the volunteers of the Warehouse help all who come through the door without judgment, including the disheartening high number of young, gay street workers and runaways. They have helped many of those young, gay and straight — get out of the street, into a more stable life. If you like, I can arrange for several of their alumni to speak with you all. Or better yet, work out an opportunity for you to visit the facility. It really is remarkable how much they accomplish.

I think that’s a great idea, Dr. Alvarez, a smooth, confident voice said.

Rax looked up to see Vance Ellington, the star lacrosse player, walking toward him. His heart skipped just a bit. Average height, but broad and strong, with intense topaz eyes, he weaved through the tables and chairs, stopping behind Rax, who felt both nervous and excited to have him this close.

Vance was next-level everything. Star lacrosse player, notable track, field, and soccer. His GPA, at 3.8 out of four, admirable. He’d only seen the senior in passing, and at various meetings, but had not mustered any courage to talk to him.

Personally, Vance continued, addressing the group, I’d much rather devote my energy and finances to an organization that puts their money where their work is, and those works include helping the unfortunate. Especially if those being served include gays who aren’t fortunate enough to get help at home. I don’t care who they worship.

With that, he rubbed his hand across Rax’s shoulders before sitting down next to him.

Vance leaned over, close to his ear, and the warm, minty breath tickled Rax all the way down to his toes.

Let’s grab a coffee after this.

The organization, maybe encouraged by Alvarez and Vance, voted to go with the Warehouse. The rescue group came in a close second, but simple majority won the day.

That was great the way you swayed the vote, Rax told Vance as they headed from the meeting down to the coffee shop where Rax worked. He needed a cup of joe to get him through a long night of studying, and since Tessa was working, he could snag a free one.

Vance shrugged modestly. Your work convinced me. Of course, if they are forcing conversion therapy on people, I might have an issue.

Rax laughed. "I don’t think Dr. Alvarez would support that. Do you want to go with me to talk to Marcus — to see if they want our help?

Sure, I can do that. Vance reached across the table and touched Rax’s hand. Why don’t we head back to my place and talk there?

Rax couldn’t hide his smile this time, but it dimmed quickly. Dr. Paulson, his Aerospace Engineer professor, killed any joy he felt. I have an exam in Paulson’s class tomorrow and I need to study.

Paulson’s easy, Vance said. Aerospace is my minor, so come over and I’ll help you.

Chapter 3

Andre slid the needle into a vein on his arm and his body wilted against his new buddy, named Scorpio, who’d used the needle first. He released the strip of rubber from his arm after pulling the needle out.

Dude, this is great stuff, Andre moaned. 

I know, right? Scorp laughed. I have good connections.

I love your connections, he replied lazily. He’d been in Atlanta for a month now. Maybe longer, maybe shorter. He couldn’t remember because he had stayed high most of it. Andre didn’t even remember how he met Scorp. But the red-mohawk man, four or five years older than himself, had taken him in without asking for favors, other than to help him steal for their fixes.

Scorp even shared his two-man shelter with him, an old relic from the army, he’d explained. They sat in it now, the icy rain dampening their afternoon but not their spirits.

How’d you end up here, Dre? Scorp asked.

It didn’t kill his buzz, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to indulge. Things got too real in Charlotte, so I came here.

Scorp chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. I get it, man. This place ain’t nothin’.

Whatcha mean?

Scorp gazed far away, too far to see anything in the tent, and for a long moment, the silence hung, tense and ready to drop. Andre became aware of the haunted heaviness in his eyes.

Finally, Scorp shook his head. I think the rain’s let up. Let’s stretch our legs. Maybe some of the guys are around.

Andre followed him out of the tent, unfolding his long frame into a stretch. Scorpio surveyed the area and Andre studied him. Being unfamiliar with this area, he trusted Scorp. When Scorp’s head drew back some, Andre braced himself.

What?

Hearing the concern, Scorp shook his head. A buddy’s here. He’s solid, c’mon.

They walked away from the alley across to the street. Hang here and I’ll wave you over, Scorp said.

Andre watched his buddy walk over to a tall, solid man, bald, except for the beanie on his head, a frowning mustache melting into a goatee. The man reminded him of a tank. He waited for Scorpio as hairs began to rise on the back of his neck and a shiver trickled down his spine. The cold air thickened and, feeling very exposed, Andre stepped back into the alley which had provided some cover.

It didn’t take too long to find you, Ben.

His dreadlocks tightened into Scalpel’s grip.

Where is it?

Scalpel slammed Andre into the brick wall, the hard stop forcing the air from his lungs and cracking against his head. Andre refused to pass out. One fleshy hand-held Andre by the throat pressed against the wall. The other slammed into his stomach and ribs.

You stole our property, Scalpel hissed.

No, it was— He couldn’t say property, since he knew what it felt like to be owned. Mine.

Scorpio picked a good time to take a walk with his buddy, a red-goateed, harsh-looking man, equally scary as the bald man preparing for Andre’s slow, painful death. 

Where is it?

Andre shook his head. Kill me.

Scalpel’s fist looked like the size of Andre’s head, aimed at his face. Closing his eyes, he prayed he’d just die. But Scalpel didn’t believe